


free and unafraid

by procellous



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Begging, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Pining, Praise Kink, Vaginal Sex, because would it really be one of my smut fics if Theon wasn't going down on Sansa?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:15:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29672682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procellous/pseuds/procellous
Summary: “You wanted to see me, Lady Sansa?”“I did.” She favored him with a rare smile that made his battered, scarred heart skip a beat. “This concerns you.”
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26





	free and unafraid

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is the _flimsiest_ justification for porn that I've ever had, and I've had some flimsy justifications for porn. can you tell that this was written in two parts with a little over a year between them? I feel like you can tell.
> 
> anyway I'm about 95% sure that r'hllor doesn't work this way but whatcha gonna do, tell germ on me?

Theon pushed open the door of Sansa’s study, taking in the room. Sansa stood, impassive and regal as ever, by the table, across from the Red Witch that Theon had heard conflicting rumors about. Between them, on the table, sat a bowl of something bubbling and steaming. 

He shut the door behind him. 

“You wanted to see me, Lady Sansa?”

“I did.” She favored him with a rare smile that made his battered, scarred heart skip a beat. “This concerns you.”

“There are other candidates—” the Red Witch began. 

“Not for me.” 

Theon pushed the swell of emotion in his breast down. Whatever she needed him for, he’d do, and gladly. 

“There’s more people in Winterfell than we have rations, because _someone_ brought two armies and no food. Melisandre mentioned a ritual that can multiply food stores. But it requires, ah,”

Sansa’s cheeks were stained pink. “A man with king’s blood and the lady of the castle to…multiply.”  
  
 _King’s blood_. Theon swallowed. There were a few people in Winterfell who could claim that, but most of them were Sansa’s siblings. Or Gendry, King Robert’s bastard, who he had last seen following Arya around like a puppy. He supposed the two Lannisters in Winterfell could qualify, but Robb would come back just to kill him if he let her go to one of them for this. 

“So you want to—” His cheeks burned. Once he wouldn’t have hesitated to say the word. “With _me_?”

“There’s no one I trust more, Theon.” 

Sometimes Sansa seemed to glow from within, blindingly bright. Theon blinked, feeling tears stinging his eyes. 

“And…that’s all it takes?” Theon glanced at Melisandre. 

“You both must drink from this potion,” she said, gesturing to the bubbling bowl on the table. “And then join together within the bounds of the castle. Considering Lady Sansa also has king’s blood, the ritual should be quite effective.”

It seemed simple enough, though Sansa looked supremely uncomfortable at the thought. The thought of baring herself to a man must be terrifying for her. Theon didn’t feel any more at ease than she looked, for that matter. Sleeping with someone, anyone, after everything, after what Ramsay had done to him…

Sansa needed him, though, so he would stay. 

Sansa reached out and squeezed his hand. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I know.” If he refused, he knew, Sansa would either find some other way to get more food or convince Gendry to sleep with her for the good of Winterfell, and never mention this to him again—but his weaknesses had endangered her before, and he couldn’t let that happen again. 

Besides, sleeping with Sansa wasn’t the worst thing he had ever done for her. 

“I’ll do it,” he said. “If…if you’re sure you want me.”

Sansa’s lips met his in answer. His eyes fluttered closed, lost in the sensation, in the smell of her hair and the taste of her mouth. 

“Lady Sansa,” he breathed, reverent. 

“Just Sansa, Theon,” she said, a gentle chide. “There’s no need for titles between us.”

“I don’t think I can,” he confessed. 

“Not to interrupt,” Melisandre said, looking amused, “but you need to drink the potion _before_ you take to bed together if the ritual is to have effect.”

Sansa colored. Theon felt his face flame as well. 

“Your hands, please?”

Theon watched Sansa tug off one of her gloves, and hesitated over his own. Sansa had seen him bared before, as he had seen her—with Ramsay leering at them both, even when he wasn’t in the room with them. This was just his hand. Yara had seen him bared, too, he reminded himself. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, pulling the glove off as though not looking would make it not real. 

Sansa’s other hand lay on his shoulder, her body pressed against his side. Melisandre took their hands and pressed them together. Theon let his eyes open, the lack of pain something of a surprise. There were no knives, no blood, just Sansa’s soft palm against his and the witch’s hands wrapped around them both. Melisandre was chanting something, but all Theon could pay attention to was the sheen of Sansa’s hair in the firelight. Her eyes were the color of the sky after a storm, he decided, that was the right shade of blue. 

“It is ready,” Melisandre told them, and swept out in a curl of red cloth, leaving the two of them alone in the room together. Sansa was still holding his hand in hers, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. 

“Theon,” she said, so soft that it was almost a whisper, “if I had asked—not for a ritual or Winterfell or anything else, if I had asked just for us and ourselves, would you have said yes?”

He hesitated. He thought about lying. Once he would have simply said yes without hesitation or lie—but that was a long time ago, now. 

He could not lie to her, not her, not with her hands on his, not with her brilliant blue eyes fixed on his. He fought the urge to duck his head, to avoid her gaze; he couldn’t bear to see her eyes soften with pity. 

“I haven’t…wanted anything, not for myself. I think—I think I forgot how? And after everything he did…” He shuddered involuntarily. “But for you, if you had asked, I would’ve—I would’ve said yes.”

“I understand,” she said, her hands still around his. “I cannot bear the touch of anyone anymore, but I think you might be the only man my skin won’t crawl from.”

His heart, broken as it was, broke a little more at the thought of sweet, affectionate Sansa, the girl who had played princess and knight with him and Robb, who wanted nothing more than a loving husband and scores of children, shrinking away from touch. She’d locked herself away in layers of ice and steel and courtesy, and he wished he was someone closer to what she deserved—a proper shining knight, a golden prince from a song, not a broken man who had tried and failed to be someone important—someone who could help her shed that armor, who could take her hand as she stepped out from all the shadows of her past into the sunlight of a new day. 

But she wanted _him_ , even battered and broken, had found some of the pieces of himself he had lost and had given them back to him. 

“If it wasn’t for a ritual or Winterfell or anything else, if it was just for us and ourselves, would you have asked?”

Sansa hesitated. “I…I don’t think so,” she admitted. “Perhaps just to sleep with someone nearby.” She looked terribly young as she said it. 

_Older than Robb was_ , his mind hissed, _older than Robb would ever be. Why are you still alive, when he is dead?_

 _Because Sansa needs me still_. She’d hate it if he said it aloud; he’d said something similar to Yara once, and she had been furious. She hadn’t yelled, which was worse. Theon could deal with yelling; quiet disappointment and disdain was far worse. 

“We should…” Her gaze skittered over to the still-steaming bowl on the table. 

Right. That. The reason she was going to bear his touch, the reason he was going to bare himself to her. 

_For Winterfell_ , he reminded himself. _For Sansa_.

He was the only man she’d trust with this: an impossible trust she placed in a man who’d betrayed her family—who’d betrayed _her_ —so many times already. One he certainly didn’t deserve. 

Sansa lifted the bowl to her mouth, sipping from it, and handed it to him. The potion was…soup. He couldn’t taste anything special in it, just the warm broth and some herbs and spices. The warmth filled him, down to his remaining fingers and toes.

He dared enough to lift a hand to her cheek, thumb on the corner of her lips; dared enough to guide his mouth to hers. 

“And now we…” 

“Yes, we do.” Sansa’s face was flushed. “M-my bedchamber is just through here.”

She led him, her hand in his, into the room. It had been her mother’s, he realized as he stepped into the heat; the warmest room in the castle. 

“It seems that I’m always cold, these days,” she explained. “Sometimes it feels as though I will never be warm again.”

“I’ll keep you warm,” he promised. 

There it was again, the rare smile. It suited her so well, better than any fine gown or shining jewel. “I know you will.”

She smoothed his hair back, kissing his forehead as she did. Her hands dropped to the leather ties of his armor.

“May I?”

He nodded, brushing a stray lock of hair back behind her ear. She made quick work of the ties, letting the armor fall around his feet, and he stood before her in the plain tunic and trousers he wore beneath them. It was less bare than when they’d escaped together, but more intimate. 

It felt like lifetimes ago that they’d been shivering in the snow together, pressed together for what meager warmth their bodies could provide. 

“Theon,” she said, “will you take off my bodice?”

His fingers found their way to her sides, to the laces holding her armor in place, and he carefully untied the knots that sat against her hips, tugging the laces bit by bit out from their eyelets. She looked softer, with the thick leather removed; more vulnerable and more human. 

She unbuttoned her heavy skirt, letting the thick, dark fabric fall to the floor with a soft thump, leaving her in only her lighter petticoats and shift. 

The last time they had seen each other bared had been under Ramsay’s orders, had been humiliation and pain and violence. The last time he had been permitted to touch a woman was—

A long time ago.

“Theon,” Sansa said, “are you with me?”

“I am,” he said. “I’m here.”

“Good.” She bit her lip, and he watched, fascinated, as her teeth left little indents in the soft pillow of it. He longed to kiss her, to replace her teeth with his own, to soothe away those marks. “I suppose we should undress, then.” She turned around, her fingers coming up to the laces of her chemise. 

Theon turned as well, staring at the closed and barred door as he stripped down, fighting the urge to hunch down and make himself smaller, to avoid invisible eyes. There were no mirrors in the room, but he didn’t need them to know what he looked like: scarred, pitted skin and mangled flesh. Nothing close to what Sansa deserved. 

“Theon?”

He turned, slowly, resisting the need to cover himself with his hands. He kept his gaze on Sansa, instead, focusing on the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, the drape of her hair down her shoulders. She was beautiful, the faint spray of freckles over her nose nearly invisible through the flush on her round cheeks, her full lips curved into a gentle smile. 

Her fingertips brushed against the back of his hand, guiding it to her hip. Her touch was like fire, burning under his skin, rekindling embers he had thought were nothing but ashes. 

“Theon,” she said, her hand resting on his bare chest, “will you kiss me?”

She tasted like the spices in the soup-potion, like impossible things, like sunshine and summer. Her mouth was soft against his, welcoming, and he felt more than heard her moan. 

“Please,” he murmured, not sure what he was asking for. Sansa seemed to understand, though, her hands skimming along his arms and shoulders, not pushing, just pressing against him as she stepped closer to him. Her thighs brushed against his half-hard cock. 

He broke their kiss, dropping his mouth to the long column of her neck, to her shoulders and the pale scars along her collarbone. Sansa made a noise that was half sigh and half moan as his hands came up to cup her breasts. He closed his eyes, mouthing at her skin, feeling the smooth flesh sliding across his lips, urged on by the soft, needy noises that slipped from her mouth. 

“Theon,” she gasped, “Theon, _Theon_ —”

“I’m yours,” he said, kissing a pale, circular scar on the side of her breast. He knew where it had come from—had seen it happen—but the memory felt faded and distant compared to the pink of her skin in the candlelight, her warmth under his hands, the feeling of her hands in his hair. “I’m yours, Sansa.”

He wrapped his arms around her thighs, lifting her onto her bed without taking his mouth away from her breast or losing her hands in his hair. Sansa gasped as her heels left the ground. 

“Was that alright?” he said, barely taking his mouth away from her skin. 

“Gods, yes,” she said, tugging at his hair to draw his face up to hers and kissing him. “You’re so—so strong.” One of her hands dropped down to his shoulder, her thumb digging into the muscle. Her eyes were dark, her legs parted around him. 

Theon swallowed, his hand drifting down to her thighs, to the ridges of scars that he wanted to soothe back into her skin, to the soft wet heat hidden behind her nest of curls. He brushed the tips of his fingers against it, watching her face for a reaction. 

“Please,” she whined, spreading her legs wider, “please, Theon, I need—” He replaced his fingertips with the flat of his tongue, and she broke off with a gasp. 

“I’ve got you, love,” he said, holding her legs apart. He buried his face between her thighs, working at her with lips and tongue and fingers, feeling her thighs tremble and shake around his ears. It didn’t take long; she was already worked up, and she made such sweet noises as he brought her just to the edge of her peak. 

“Theon,” she sobbed, “Theon, please, don’t stop, I need _more_.”

“I know. I’m going to take care of you, shh, it’s alright.” He rearranged them so that he was sitting on the bed, Sansa straddling his lap. His hard cock rested against her stomach, eager to take her apart. 

He plunged two fingers deep inside her while thumbing at her clit, and watched her shake apart for him, crying out his name as she peaked. 

“Good girl,” he said, pulling his fingers out of her. “What a good girl. Do you still want more?”

“Please,” Sansa said. “Please, I _need_ it, I feel so empty and aching…”

“I want to hear you say it. What do you want, Sansa?”

“I want you to fuck me, please, I want your c-cock in me.”

Theon kissed her, wondering if she could taste herself on his lips, and carefully slid the head of his cock inside her. He didn’t want to go too fast and hurt her, even as wet as she was. 

“Theon,” she moaned, lifting her hips and rocking into him, “Theon, please, please…”

His hand crept down to her, feeling the soft folds and coarse hairs, playing with her, stroking her clit. His other hand fondled her breast, soft and yielding, thumb skittering across her nipple. 

“Beautiful,” he murmured into her neck as he kissed her. “Sansa…”

“Theon, I need, I need more, please,” she gasped, her hips bucking and rocking into him. “I want to feel you, please.”

Theon was certain even the most iron will would crumble into dust when faced with Sansa pleading for _more_ , and Theon had never had an iron will. Even so…

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he told her.

“You won’t, you won’t. I can take it, please, I _need_ it. I need _you_.”

“You have me,” Theon said. “All of me, as long as you want me.”

“Always,” Sansa promised, drawing him close for a kiss. “Always, Theon.”

He pushed all the way in, trying to be as gentle as he could. Sansa had felt enough pain in her life; she deserved pleasure now. 

She felt perfect, as though they were made for each other. She looked even better, her head thrown back against the pillows. 

“Fuck, Sansa…” he murmured, kissing her neck. “I’m not going to last.”

“Peak for me, Theon,” she ordered, and it was all Theon needed to tip over the edge with a low moan of her name. 

He slid out of her slowly, suddenly sore and tired. 

“Do you think it worked?”

“If it didn’t, I might need a bit of a break before we try again.” He didn’t remember sex being this tiring. Then again, it had been a while. The thought didn’t hurt as much as it had. 

Sansa huffed a laugh, rolling over to kiss him. “I’ll check the stores in the morning.”

For a moment they simply lay curled together, his head on her shoulder. Her fingers ran through Theon’s hair. 

“I love you,” she murmured. 

“And I, you.” Theon smiled, tugging the furs around them, and fell asleep in her arms, free and unafraid. 

**Author's Note:**

> and then they woke up really sticky.


End file.
